


Antique Notions

by f_m_r_l



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_m_r_l/pseuds/f_m_r_l
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kinkmeme: "High!Holmes goes antiquing.</p>
<p>"Holmes, high on MDMA (or Ecstacy), goes antiquing. How do shop owners react when he starts humping furniture?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antique Notions

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/Own Fuzzy Chaise. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson pre-slash.

It was beautiful, just the exact colour of the mould that had grown in his favourite biology experiment when he was six, though the sensuous Art Nouveau curves reminded him of something else, he couldn’t remember what, something pink. Right, that painting that had been stolen, O’Keefe. But the surface texture was something else something... combined with the curves.... It was cool against his lips, smooth yet subtly textured against his tongue, the curves guiding his tongue along towards....

There was a sudden “thud” to the left. An elderly customer in the shop had passed out. After making sure that the lady would be fine, the shopkeeper, a stern older man with salt-and-pepper hair, gave him that look. “Sir, I must insist that you stop licking the vase while in the store. Let me just wrap it for your purchase and you can enjoy it at home.”

John emerged from his hiding place behind a display of vintage hand tools and gave Sherlock’s credit card to the shopkeeper, casually tugging the vase from Sherlock’s hands on the way. “It will make a lovely thank-you-for-putting-up-with-that-explosion gift for Mrs. Hudson.” He looked down at the object in his hands. “Once we’ve washed it. Thoroughly,” he stated dryly.

That was why he liked John. John thought of people and took care of things. Or did he take care of people and think of things? Probably both. He would have to tell John later.

Sherlock smiled and turned to finger the worn velvet of a chaise longue that had caught his attention. The fabric was the colour of John’s eyes, if he could just determine what colour that was. Was it appropriate to have the colour of John’s eyes be something soft? While he thought about it, he tried the chaise on for size, stretching into one of his traditional languid poses, face down with his arms propped across the chaise’s back. Not too uncomfortable, and just right for stroking the upholstery. The cushions were rather nice, really. He gave an experimental thrust. Interesting. He repeated it.

“Sherlock, NO!” John almost seemed to have teleported from his position by the counter, where the shopkeeper was still standing, eyes glazed, face red. On closer examination, the velvet was not nearly as interesting as the colour of John’s eyes. Sherlock stood and placed his hand on John’s shoulder, where John’s jumper was being distractingly fuzzy and warm. John gave him a measuring look and headed back to the counter, Sherlock trailing behind.

Resisting the urge to trace the cable patterns on John’s jumper with his fingers, Sherlock casually reached over and got out a pipe from a display rack. The rack was locked, of course, but that had never stopped him before. It was a particularly handsome pipe and —

“Sherlock!” The light in John’s eyes was half anger, half something else entirely. Sherlock wondered why he’d never before noticed how fascinating John’s eyes were. It was easy to underestimate them, but they were the exact hue and shine of happiness. Sherlock’s happiness, anyway. He would have to see about John’s. “No, no, just...” John sighed “...put that on the card, too. Sherlock, keep that there, between your teeth, will you?”

The man behind the counter looked up from wrapping the vase and started, dropping the roll of bubble wrap. His eyes were fixated on the way Sherlock had decided to investigate the pipe, holding it against his face, nuzzling against it not just to smell the ghost of old tobacco but the faded polish and scent of the wood itself, the texture of the pipe in its entirety against his cheek, holding up to see where the gradations in hue where oils from the habitual touches of the previous owner had darkened the finish. “Just... uh, t-take it and go. Now,” the shopkeeper stammered out. John grabbed the package with one hand, Sherlock’s arm with the other, and towed him out of the antique shop, perhaps purposely not noticing that Sherlock had lifted an interesting old hat along the way.

John’s hand was very nice on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock wondered if that extended over the whole of John’s body, over the whole of his own body, and John’s body would be very nice on his body. Sherlock had the sudden urge to nuzzle at John’s neck, just below and behind his ear, near where it joined with his shoulder. It was for the sake of science, of course.

Sherlock beamed at John during the entire cab ride home. John was attempting to scowl back, but his gaze looked ever more alarmed and disquieted. This was not, Sherlock knew, the place to explore his curiosity about the exact texture of John’s hair, particularly when it involved the hair on John’s chest. So he sat, and smiled, and practically vibrated with impatience.

The stairs to the flat were a little surprising. Sherlock had never previously paid attention to how much they said about him, about John, and about the lives in the building before them. Something so revealing, right out in the open where anyone could see it. He may as well carve love letters right into them. Maybe the next time he was bored, though it seemed hard to imagine that he hadn’t been completely cured of boredom now that he seen how interesting everything was.

Then the door was closing behind them. Sherlock would be able to tell John everything and John would —

“What,” hissed John, “what exactly are you playing at. I thought you were clean.”

“I needed to verify a hypothesis.” Sherlock wondered if the kicked puppy eyes would work. John would probably see right through that.

“Don’t tell me this is for a case. I know you don’t have any cases on.” The look in John’s eyes now, that was not good. Not even the experiment with eyeballs in the butter dish had inspired this reaction.

“I was experiencing an emotion I had not previously felt and I hypothesised that it was affection. But I needed to establish a baseline of how affection actually expressed itself in my emotional state. It appears to be generally agreed that Ecstasy causes people to feel affectionate, so I obtained some for my experiment.” Sherlock was feeling... embarrassed? How in the world would he test that?

“You won’t repeat this?”

“No need,” Sherlock replied honestly.

And your results?” John’s expression had changed to its default level of exasperation. “No, don’t tell me, you’ll have to be clean to evaluate your results.” John sighed and slumped into the sofa. When Sherlock sprawled across him, cuddling into John’s jumper, John merely pulled him close and ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair.

* * *

John didn’t have Sherlock’s deductive abilities or the search experience of the police, but he did have an intimate familiarity of their flat. It didn’t take him long to find the colourful little pills. He sent one off to be tested; considering it was street drugs, there was no telling what contaminants were in the pills Sherlock had taken and it might be best to know.

When the tests came back showing that the pills were made up entirely of children’s vitamins and caffeine pills, ground up and moulded into a barely plausible counterfeit, John vowed never to let Sherlock know.

And he left the rest of the pills exactly where he’d found them.


End file.
